Five Years Later: Part 1

At about 9 pm on the evening of November 9th, 2005, my phone rang, and, with the events that soon followed, cleaved my reality into a distinct “before” and “after.” It took years to let go of the “before” that our lives were, and years to accept the “after” that our lives became. I still cringe a little when the phone rings late in the evening, reminding me of how unpredictable life is, and how little control we all have. But gradually my fears have given way to gratitude—I give thanks each time that phone rings and I find out my friends and family are still safe and healthy.

In upcoming postings, I plan to reflect on this experience as it unfolded, including everything we struggled with and everything we have to be grateful for. I believe that it is our responsibility—as hard as it is in the heat of the moment—to grow and evolve no matter what challenges come our way. Sometimes writing can help you figure these things out, help you figure out how you feel about things. And as much as I wish I could undo my mom’s suffering, I have accepted the “after” with my whole heart and I am a better person because of it. It seems to me that this is everyone’s journey.

The following is the beginning of a series of excerpts from my essay, “Josie’s Window.”

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She slumps in a chair at the kitchen table, an invisible weight tugging at her left arm. Behind her, the white borders of the window pane create a checkered backdrop against the evening vista.

“I’m fine,” Mom insists. “The floor was slippery…I couldn’t get back up. Get my crutches so I can go back to bed.” Only the right side of her mouth moves, while saliva dribbles from the left. Her voice is raspy and muffled, like it’s lodged in her throat. Her eyes are only slightly open.

Dad holds out her crutches, but she doesn’t reach for them.

“She has a field cut,” he says, waving his arm in a vertical motion. “She can’t see anything to her left. I think she’s had a stroke.” He starts pacing, picking up the phone and then putting it back on the receiver.

She leans over and vomits on the floor.

I know what he is debating. Twenty miles of country roads to the nearest hospital, an ambulance will take too long. I lean over and hug her tight. I feel a pop and a hiss, as if I’ve punctured an air-tight package—the feel of something brick-hard becoming malleable in my hands.

We ease her toward the back door, her left leg dragging in its black orthopedic boot. She grabs the door frame in protest.